Once, wars were won by maneuvering hired fighting men; now wars are
different--and the hired experts are different. But the human problems remain!

Duncan MacLeod hung up the suit he had taken off, and sealed
his shirt, socks and underwear in a laundry envelope bearing his name and
identity-number, tossing this into one of the wire baskets provided for the
purpose. Then, naked except for the plastic identity disk around his neck, he
went over to the desk, turned in his locker key, and passed into the big room
beyond.

Four or five young men, probably soldiers on their way to
town, were coming through from the other side. Like MacLeod, they wore only the
plastic disks they had received in exchange for the metal ones they wore inside
the reservation, and they were being searched by attendants who combed through
their hair, probed into ears and nostrils, peered into mouths with tiny
searchlights, and employed a variety of magnetic and electronic detectors.

To this search MacLeod submitted wearily. He had become
quite a connoisseur of security measures in fifteen years' research and
development work for a dozen different nations, but the Tonto Basin Research
Establishment of the Philadelphia Project exceeded anything he had seen before.
There were gray-haired veterans of the old Manhattan Project here, men who had
worked with Fermi at Chicago, or with Oppenheimer at Los Alamos, twenty years
before, and they swore in amused exasperation when they thought of how the
relatively mild regulations of those days had irked them. And yet, the very
existence of the Manhattan Project had been kept a secret from all but those
engaged in it, and its purpose from most of them. Today, in 1965, there might
have been a few wandering tribesmen in Somaliland or the Kirghiz Steppes who
had never heard of the Western Union's Philadelphia Project, or of the Fourth
Komintern's Red Triumph Five-Year Plan, or of the Islamic Kaliphate's Al-Borak
Undertaking, or of the Ibero-American Confederation's Cavor Project, but every
literate person in the world knew that the four great power-blocs were racing
desperately to launch the first spaceship to reach the Moon and build the Lunar
fortress that would insure world supremacy.

He turned in the nonmagnetic identity disk at the desk on
the other side of the search room, receiving the metal one he wore inside the
reservation, and with it the key to his inside locker. He put on the clothes he
had left behind when he had passed out, and filled his pockets with the
miscellany of small articles he had not been allowed to carry off the
reservation. He knotted the garish necktie affected by the civilian workers and
in particular by members of the MacLeod Research Team to advertise their
nonmilitary status, lit his pipe, and walked out into the open gallery beyond.

*****

Karen Hilquist was waiting for him there, reclining in one
of the metal chairs. She looked cool in the belted white coveralls, with the
white turban bound around her yellow hair, and very beautiful, and when he saw
her, his heart gave a little bump, like a geiger responding to an ionizing
particle. It always did that, although they had been together for twelve years,
and married for ten. Then she saw him and smiled, and he came over, fanning
himself with his sun helmet, and dropped into a chair beside her.

"Did you call our center for a jeep?" he asked.
When she nodded, he continued: "I thought you would, so I didn't
bother."

For a while, they sat silent, looking with bored distaste at
the swarm of steel-helmeted Army riflemen and tommy-gunners guarding the
transfer platforms and the vehicles gate. A string of trucks had been passed
under heavy guard into the clearance compound: they were now unloading supplies
onto a platform, at the other side of which other trucks were backed waiting to
receive the shipment. A hundred feet of bare concrete and fifty armed soldiers
separated these from the men and trucks from the outside, preventing contact.

"And still they can't stop leaks," Karen said
softly. "And we get blamed for it."

MacLeod nodded and started to say something, when his
attention was drawn by a commotion on the driveway. A big Tucker limousine with
an O.D. paint job and the single-starred flag of a brigadier general was
approaching, horning impatiently. In the back seat MacLeod could see a
heavy-shouldered figure with the face of a bad-tempered great
Dane--General Daniel Nayland, the military commander of Tonto Basin. The inside
guards jumped to attention and saluted; the barrier shot up as though
rocket-propelled, and the car slid through; the barrier slammed down behind it.
On the other side, the guards were hurling themselves into a frenzy of saluting.
Karen made a face after the receding car and muttered something in Hindustani.
She probably didn't know the literal meaning of what she had called General
Nayland, but she understood that it was a term of extreme opprobrium.

Her husband contributed: "His idea of Heaven would be a
huge research establishment, where he'd be a five-star general, and Galileo,
Newton, Priestley, Dalton, Maxwell, Planck and Einstein would be tech
sergeants."

"He hates our Team," MacLeod replied. "In the
first place, we're a lot of civilians, who aren't subject to his regulations
and don't have to salute him. We're working under contract with the Western Union,
not with the United States Government, and as the United States participates in
the Western Union on a treaty basis, our contract has the force of a treaty
obligation. It gives us what amounts to extraterritoriality, like Europeans in
China during the Nineteenth Century. So we have our own transport, for which he
must furnish petrol, and our own armed guard, and we fly our own flag over Team
Center, and that gripes him as much as anything else. That
and the fact that we're foreigners. So wouldn't he love to make this
espionage rap stick on us!"

"And our contract specifically gives the United States
the right to take action against us in case we endanger the national
security," Karen added. She stuffed her cigarette into the
not-too-recently-emptied receiver beside her chair, her blue eyes troubled.
"You know, some of us could get shot over this, if we're not careful.
Dunc, does it really have to be one of our own people who--?"

"I don't see how it could be anybody else,"
MacLeod said. "I don't like the idea any more than you do, but there it
is."

"Well, what are we going to do? Is there nobody whom we
can trust?"

"Among the technicians and guards,
yes. I could think of a score who are absolutely loyal. But among the
Team itself--the top researchers--there's nobody I'd take a chance on but Kato
Sugihara."

"Can you even be sure of him? I'd hate to think of him
as a traitor, but--"

"I have a couple of reasons for eliminating Kato,"
MacLeod said. "In the first place, outside nucleonic and binding-force physics,
there are only three things he's interested in. Jitterbugging,
hand-painted neckties, and Southern-style cooking. If he went over to
the Komintern, he wouldn't be able to get any of those. Then, he only spends
about half his share of the Team's profits, and turns the rest back into the
Team Fund. He has a credit of about a hundred thousand dollars, which he'd lose
by leaving us. And then, there's another thing. Kato's father was killed on
Guadalcanal, in 1942, when he was only five. After that he was brought up in
the teachings of Bushido by his grandfather, an old-time samurai. Bushido is
open to some criticism, but nobody can show where double-crossing your own gang
is good Bushido. And today, Japan is allied with the Western Union, and in any
case, he wouldn't help the Komintern. The Japs'll forgive Russia for that
Mussolini back-stab in 1945 after the Irish start building monuments to
Cromwell."

A light-blue jeep, lettered MacLeod Research Team in cherry-red, was approaching across the
wide concrete apron. MacLeod grinned.

Karen looked at her watch. "And it's almost time for
dinner. You know, I dread the thought of sitting at the table with the others,
and wondering which of them is betraying us."

"Only nine of us, instead of thirteen, and still one is a Judas," MacLeod said. "I suppose there's
always a place for Judas, at any table."

*****

The MacLeod Team dined together, apart from their assistants
and technicians and students. This was no snobbish attempt at
class-distinction: matters of Team policy were often discussed at the big round
table, and the more confidential details of their work. People who have only
their knowledge and their ideas to sell are wary about bandying either loosely, and the six men and three women who faced each
other across the twelve-foot diameter of the teakwood table had no other
stock-in-trade.

They were nine people of nine different nationalities, or
they were nine people of the common extra-nationality of science. That Duncan
MacLeod, their leader, had grown up in the Transvaal and his wife had been born
in the Swedish university town of Upsala was typical not only of their own
group but of the hundreds of independent research-teams that had sprung up
after the Second World War. The scientist-adventurer may have been born of the
relentless struggle for scientific armament supremacy among nations and the
competition for improved techniques among industrial corporations during the
late 1950s and early '60s, but he had been begotten when two masses of uranium
came together at the top of a steel tower in New Mexico in 1945. And, because
scientific research is pre-eminently a matter of pooling brains and efforts,
the independent scientists had banded together into teams whose leaders
acquired power greater than that of any condottiere
captain of Renaissance Italy.

Duncan MacLeod, sitting outwardly relaxed and merry and
secretly watchful and bitterly sad, was such a free-captain of science. One by
one, the others had rallied around him, not because he was a greater physicist
than they, but because he was a bolder, more clever,
less scrupulous adventurer, better able to guide them through the maze of
international power-politics and the no less ruthless if less nakedly violent
world of Big Industry.

There was his wife, Karen Hilquist, the young metallurgist
who, before she was twenty-five, had perfected a new hardening process for SKF
and an incredibly tough gun-steel for the Bofors works. In the few minutes
since they had returned to Team Center, she had managed to change her coveralls
for a skirt and blouse, and do something intriguing with her hair.

And there was Kato Sugihara, looking younger than his twenty-eight
years, who had begun to demonstrate the existence of whole orders of structure
below the level of nuclear particles.

There was Suzanne Maillard, her gray hair upswept from a
face that had never been beautiful but which was alive with something rarer
than mere beauty: she possessed, at the brink of fifty, a charm and smartness
that many women half her age might have envied, and she knew more about cosmic
rays than any other person living.

And Adam Lowiewski, his black mustache contrasting so oddly
with his silver hair, frantically scribbling equations on his doodling-pad, as
though his racing fingers could never keep pace with his brain, and explaining
them, with obvious condescension, to the boyish-looking Japanese beside him. He
was one of the greatest of living mathematicians by anybody's reckoning--the greatest, by his own.

And Sir Neville Lawton, the electronics expert, with
thinning red-gray hair and meticulously-clipped mustache, who always gave the
impression of being in evening clothes, even when, as now, he was dressed in
faded khaki.

And Heym ben-Hillel, the Israeli quantum and wave-mechanics
man, his heaping dinner plate an affront to the Laws of Moses, his white hair a
fluffy, tangled chaos, laughing at an impassively-delivered joke the English
knight had made.

And Rudolf von Heldenfeld, with a thin-lipped killer's mouth
and a frozen face that never betrayed its owner's thoughts--he was the
specialist in magnetic currents and electromagnetic fields.

And Farida Khouroglu, the Turkish girl whom MacLeod and
Karen had found begging in the streets of Istanbul, ten years ago, and who had
grown up following the fortunes of the MacLeod Team on every continent and in a
score of nations. It was doubtful if she had ever had a day's formal schooling
in her life, but now she was secretary of the Team, with a grasp of physics
that would have shamed many a professor. She had grown up a beauty, too, with
the large dark eyes and jet-black hair and paper-white skin of her race. She
and Kato Sugihara were very much in love.

A good team; the best physics-research
team in a power-mad, knowledge-hungry world. MacLeod thought, toying
with the stem of his wineglass, of some of their triumphs: The West Australia
Atomic Power Plant. The Segovia Plutonium Works, which had got them all titled
as Grandees of the restored Spanish Monarchy. The sea-water chemical extraction
plant in Puerto Rico, where they had worked for Associated Enterprises, whose
president, Blake Hartley, had later become President of the United States. The
hard-won victory over a seemingly insoluble problem in the Belgian Congo
uranium mines----He thought, too, of the dangers they had faced together, in a
world where soldiers must use the weapons of science and scientists must learn
the arts of violence. Of the treachery of the Islamic Kaliphate, for whom they
had once worked; of the intrigues and plots which had surrounded them in Spain;
of the many attempted kidnappings and assassinations; of the time in Basra when
they had fought with pistols and tommy guns and snatched-up clubs and flasks of
acid to defend their laboratories.

A good team--before the rot of treason had touched it. He
could almost smell the putrid stench of it, and yet, as he glanced from face to
face, he could not guess the traitor. And he had so little time--

*****

Kato Sugihara's voice rose to dominate the murmur of
conversation around the table.

"I think I am getting somewhere on my
photon-neutrino-electron interchange-cycle," he announced. "And I
think it can be correlated to the collapsed-matter research."

"So?" von Heldenfeld looked up
in interest. "And not with the problem of what goes on in the 'hot
layer' surrounding the Earth?"

"No, Suzanne talked me out of that idea," the
Japanese replied. "That's just a secondary effect of the effect of cosmic
rays and solar radiations on the order of particles existing at that level. But
I think that I have the key to the problem of collapsing matter to plate the
hull of the spaceship."

"That's interesting," Sir Neville Lawton
commented. "How so?"

"Well, you know what happens when a photon comes in
contact with the atomic structure of matter," Kato said. "There may
be an elastic collision, in which the photon merely bounces off.
Macroscopically, that's the effect we call reflection of light. Or there may be
an inelastic collision, when the photon hits an atom and knocks out an
electron--the old photoelectric effect. Or, the photon may be retained for a
while and emitted again relatively unchanged--the effect observed in luminous
paint. Or, the photon may penetrate, undergo a change to a neutrino, and either
remain in the nucleus of the atom or pass through it, depending upon a number
of factors. All this, of course, is old stuff; even the photon-neutrino
interchange has been known since the mid-'50s, when the Gamow neutrino-counter
was developed. But now we come to what you have been so
good as to christen the Sugihara Effect--the neutrino picking up a negative
charge and, in effect, turning into an electron, and then losing its charge,
turning back into a neutrino, and then, as in the case of metal heated to
incandescence, being emitted again as a photon.

"At first, we thought this had no connection with the
spaceship insulation problem we are under contract to work out, and we agreed
to keep this effect a Team secret until we could find out if it had commercial
possibilities. But now, I find that it has a direct connection with the
collapsed-matter problem. When the electron loses its negative charge and
reverts to a neutrino, there is a definite accretion of interatomic
binding-force, and the molecule, or the crystalline lattice or whatever tends
to contract, and when the neutrino becomes a photon, the nucleus of the atom
contracts."

*****

Heym ben-Hillel was sitting oblivious to everything but his
young colleague's words, a slice of the flesh of the unclean beast impaled on
his fork and halfway to his mouth.

"Yes! Certainly!" he exclaimed. "That would
explain so many things I have wondered about: And of course, there are other
forces at work which, in the course of nature, balance that effect--"

"But can the process be controlled?" Suzanne
Maillard wanted to know. "Can you convert electrons to neutrinos and then
to photons in sufficient numbers, and eliminate other effects that would cause
compensating atomic and molecular expansion?"

Kato grinned, like a tomcat contemplating the bones of a
fish he has just eaten.

"Yes, I can. I have." He turned to MacLeod. "Remember
those bullets I got from you?" he asked.

MacLeod nodded. He handloaded for his .38-special, and like
all advanced cases of handloading-fever, he was religiously fanatical about
uniformity of bullet weights and dimensions. Unlike most handloaders, he had
available the instruments to secure such uniformity.

"Those bullets are as nearly alike as different objects
can be," Kato said. "They weigh 158 grains, and that means
one-five-eight-point-zero-zero-zero-practically-nothing. The diameter is .35903
inches. All right; I've been subjecting those bullets to different
radiation-bombardments, and the best results have given me a bullet with a
diameter of .35892 inches, and the weight is unchanged. In other words, there's
been no loss of mass, but the mass had contracted. And that's only been the
first test."

"Well, write up everything you have on it, and we'll
lay out further experimental work," MacLeod said. He glanced around the
table. "So far, we can't be entirely sure. The shrinkage may be all in the
crystalline lattice: the atomic structure may be unchanged. What we need is
matter that is really collapsed."

"I'll do that," Kato said. "Barida, I'll have
all my data available for you before noon tomorrow: you can make up copies for
all Team members."

MacLeod rose silently and tiptoed around behind his wife and
Rudolf von Heldenfeld, to touch Kato Sugihara on the shoulder.

"Come on outside, Kato," he whispered. "I
want to talk to you."

*****

The Japanese nodded and rose, following him outside onto the
roof above the laboratories. They walked over to the edge and stopped at the
balustrade.

"Kato, when you write up your stuff, I want you to
falsify everything you can. Put it in such form that the data will be
absolutely worthless, but also in such form that nobody, not even Team members,
will know it has been falsified. Can you do that?"

"I hate to say this, but we have a traitor in the Team.
One of those people back in the dining room is selling us out to the Fourth
Komintern. I know it's not Karen, and I know it's not you, and that's as much
as I do know, now."

The Japanese sucked in his breath in a sharp hiss. "You
wouldn't say that unless you were sure, Dunc," he said.

"No. At about 1000 this morning, Dr. Weissberg, the
civilian director, called me to his office. I found him very much upset. He
told me that General Nayland is accusing us--by which he meant this Team--of
furnishing secret information on our subproject to Komintern agents. He said
that British Intelligence agents at Smolensk had learned that the Red Triumph
laboratories there were working along lines of research originated at MacLeod
Team Center here. They relayed the information to Western Union Central Intelligence,
and WU passed it on to United States Central Intelligence, and now Counter
Espionage is riding Nayland about it, and he's trying to make us the
goat."

"He would love to get some of us shot," Kato said.
"And that could happen. They took a long time getting tough about
espionage in this country, but when Americans get tough about something, they
get tough right. But look here; we handed in our progress-reports to Felix
Weissberg, and he passed them on to Nayland. Couldn't the leak be right in Nayland's
own HQ?"

"That's what I thought, at first," MacLeod
replied. "Just wishful thinking, though. Fact is,
I went up to Nayland's HQ and had it out with him; accused him of just that. I
think I threw enough of a scare into him to hold him for a couple of days. I
wanted to know just what it was the Komintern was supposed to have got from us,
but he wouldn't tell me. That, of course, was classified-stuff."

"Well?"

"Well then, Karen and I got our digestive tracts
emptied and went in to town, where I could use a phone that didn't go through a
military switch-board, and I put through a call to Allan Hartley, President
Hartley's son. He owes us a break, after the work we did in Puerto Rico. I told
him all I wanted was some information to help clear ourselves, and he told me
to wait a half an hour and then call Counter Espionage Office in Washington and
talk to General Hammond."

"Ha! If Allan Hartley's for us, what are we worried
about?" Kato asked. "I always knew he was the power back of
Associated Enterprises and his father was the front-man: I'll bet it's the same
with the Government."

"Allan Hartley's for us as long as our nose is clean.
If we let it get dirty, we get it bloodied, too. We have to clean it
ourselves," MacLeod told him. "But here's what Hammond gave me: The
Komintern knows all about our collapsed-matter experiments with zinc, titanium
and nickel. They know about our theoretical work on cosmic rays, including
Suzanne's work up to about a month ago. They know about that effect Sir Neville
and Heym discovered two months ago." He paused. "And they know about
the photon-neutrino-electron interchange."

Kato responded to this with a gruesome double-take that gave
his face the fleeting appearance of an ancient samurai war mask.

"That wasn't included in any report we ever made,"
he said. "You're right: the leak comes from inside the Team. It must be
Sir Neville, or Suzanne, or Heym ben-Hillel, or Adam Lowiewski, or Rudolf von
Heldenfeld, or--No! No, I can't believe it could be Farida!" He looked at MacLeod
pleadingly. "You don't think she could have--?"

"No, Kato. The Team's her whole life, even more than it
is mine. She came with us when she was only twelve, and grew up with us. She
doesn't know any other life than this, and wouldn't want any other. It has to
be one of the other five."

"Well, there's Suzanne," Kato began. "She had
to clear out of France because of political activities, after the collapse of
the Fourth Republic and the establishment of the Rightist Directoire in '57.
And she worked with Joliot-Curie, and she was at the University of Louvain in
the early '50s, when that place was crawling with Commies."

"And that brings us to Sir Neville," MacLeod
added. "He dabbles in spiritualism; he and Suzanne do planchette-seances.
A planchette can be manipulated. Maybe Suzanne produced a communication
advising Sir Neville to help the Komintern."

"Could be. Then, how about
Lowiewski? He's a Pole who can't go back to Poland, and Poland's a Komintern
country." Kato pointed out. "Maybe he'd sell us out for amnesty,
though why he'd want to go back there, the way things are now--?"

"His vanity. You know,
missionary-school native going back to the village wearing real pants, to show
off to the savages. Used to be a standing joke, down where I came from."
MacLeod thought for a moment. "And Rudolf: he's always had a poor view of
the democratic system of government. He might feel more at home with the
Komintern. Of course, the Ruskis killed his parents in 1945--"

"So what?" Kato retorted.
"The Americans killed my father in 1942, but I'm not making an issue out
of it. That was another war; Japan's a Western Union country, now. So's
Germany----How about Heym, by the way? Remember when the Komintern wanted us to
come to Russia and do the same work we're doing here?"

"I remember that after we turned them down, somebody
tried to kidnap Karen," MacLeod said grimly. "I remember a couple of
Russians got rather suddenly dead trying it, too."

"I wasn't thinking of that. I was thinking of our
round-table argument when the proposition was considered. Heym was in favor of
accepting. Now that, I would say, indicates either Communist sympathies or an
overtrusting nature," Kato submitted. "And a lot of grade-A traitors have been made out of people with trusting
natures."

MacLeod got out his pipe and lit it. For a long time, he
stared out across the mountain-ringed vista of sagebrush, dotted at wide
intervals with the bulks of research-centers and the red roofs of the villages.

"Kato, I think I know how we're going to find out which
one it is," he said. "First of all, you write up your data, and
falsify it so that it won't do any damage if it gets into Komintern hands. And
then--"

*****

The next day started in an atmosphere of suppressed
excitement and anxiety, which, beginning with MacLeod and Karen and Kato
Sugihara, seemed to communicate itself by contagion to everybody in the MacLeod
Team's laboratories. The top researchers and their immediate assistants and
students were the first to catch it; they ascribed the tension under which
their leader and his wife and the Japanese labored to the recent developments
in the collapsed-matter problem. Then, there were about a dozen
implicitly-trusted technicians and guards, who had been secretly gathered in
MacLeod's office the night before and informed of the crisis that had arisen.
Their associates could not miss the fact that they were preoccupied with
something unusual.

They were a variegated crew; men who had been added to the
Team in every corner of the world. There was Ahmed Abd-el-Rahman, the Arab
jeep-driver who had joined them in Basra. There was the wiry little Greek whom
everybody called Alex Unpronounceable. There was an Italian, and two Chinese,
and a cashiered French Air Force officer, and a Malay,
and the son of an English earl who insisted that his name was Bertie Wooster.
They had sworn themselves to secrecy, had heard MacLeod's story with a
polylingual burst of pious or blasphemous exclamations, and then they had
scattered, each to the work assigned him.

MacLeod had risen early and submitted to the ordeal of the
search to leave the reservation and go to town again, this time for a
conference at the shabby back-street cigar store that concealed a Counter
Espionage center. He had returned just as Farida Khouroglu was finishing the
microfilm copies of Kato's ingeniously-concocted pseudo-data. These copies were
distributed at noon, while the Team was lunching, along with carbons of the
original type-script.

He was the first to leave the table, going directly to the
basement, where Alex Unpronounceable and the man who had got his alias from the
works of P. G. Wodehouse were listening in on the telephone calls going in and
out through the Team-center switch-board, and making recordings. For two hours,
MacLeod remained with them. He heard Suzanne Maillard and some woman who was
talking from a number in the Army married-officers' settlement making
arrangements about a party. He heard Rudolf von Heldenfeld make a date with
some girl. He listened to a violent altercation between the Team chef and
somebody at Army Quartermaster's HQ about the quality of a lot of dressed
chicken. He listened to a call that came in for Adam Lowiewski, the
mathematician.

"This is Joe," the caller said. "I've got to
go to town late this afternoon, but I was wondering if you'd have time to meet
me at the Recreation House at Oppenheimer Village for a game of chess. I'm
calling from there, now."

"Fine; I can make it," Lowiewski's voice replied.
"I'm in the middle of a devil's own mathematical problem; maybe a game of
chess would clear my head. I have a new queen's-knight gambit I want to try on
you, anyhow."

Bertie Wooster looked up sharply. "Now there; that may
be what we're--"

The telephone beside MacLeod rang. He scooped it up; named
himself into it.

It was Ahmed Abd-el-Rahman. "Look, chief; I tail this
guy to Oppenheimer Village," the Arab, who had learned English from
American movies, answered. "He goes into the rec-joint. I slide in after
him, an' he ain't in sight. I'm lookin' around for him, see, when he comes bargin' outa the Don Ameche box. Then he grabs a table
an' a beer. What next?"

MacLeod hung up and straightened, feeling under his packet
for his .38-special.

"That's it, boys," he said. "Lowiewski.
Come on."

"Hah!" Alex Unpronounceable had his gun out and
was checking the cylinder. He spoke briefly in description of the Polish
mathematician's ancestry, physical characteristics, and probable post-mortem
destination. Then he put the gun away, and the three men left the basement.

*****

For minutes that seamed like hours, MacLeod and the Greek
waited on the main floor, where they could watch both the elevators and the
stairway. Bertie Wooster had gone up to alert Kato Sugihara and Karen. Then the
door of one of the elevators opened and Adam Lowiewski emerged, with Kato
behind him, apparently lost in a bulky scientific journal he was reading. The
Greek moved in from one side, and MacLeod stepped in front of the Pole.

"Hi, Adam," he greeted. "Have you looked into
that batch of data yet?"

"Oh, yes. Yes." Lowiewski seemed barely able to
keep his impatience within the bounds of politeness. "Of course, it's out
of my line, but the mathematics seems sound." He started to move away.

"You're not going anywhere," MacLeod told him.
"The chess game is over. The red pawns are taken--the one at Oppenheimer
Village, and the one here."

There was a split second in which Lowiewski
struggled--almost successfully--to erase the consternation from his face.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he
began. His right hand started to slide under his left coat lapel.

MacLeod's Colt was covering him before he could complete the
movement. At the same time, Kato Sugihara dropped the paper-bound periodical,
revealing the thin-bladed knife he had concealed under it. He stepped forward,
pressing the point of the weapon against the Pole's side. With the other hand,
he reached across Lowiewski's chest and jerked the pistol from his
shoulder-holster. It was one of the elegant little .32 Beretta 1954 Model
automatics.

"Into the elevator," MacLeod ordered. An
increasing pressure of Kato's knife emphasized the order. "And watch him;
don't let him get rid of anything," he added to the Greek.

"If you would explain this outrage--" Lowiewski
began. "I assume it is your idea of a joke--"

Without even replying, MacLeod slammed the doors and started
the elevator upward, letting it rise six floors to the
living quarters. Karen Hilquist and the aristocratic black-sheep who called
himself Bertie Wooster were waiting when he opened the door. The Englishman
took one of Lowiewski's arms; MacLeod took the other. The rest fell in behind
as they hustled the captive down the hall and into the big sound-proofed dining
room. They kept Lowiewski standing, well away from any movable object in the
room; Alex Unpronounceable took his left arm as MacLeod released it and went to
the communicator and punched the all-outlets button.

Karen said something to the Japanese and went outside. For a
while, nobody spoke. Kato came over and lit a cigarette in the bowl of
MacLeod's pipe. Then the other Team members entered in a body. Evidently Karen
had intercepted them in the hallway and warned them that they would find some
unusual situation inside; even so, there was a burst of surprised exclamations
when they found Adam Lowiewski under detention.

"Ladies and gentlemen," MacLeod said, "I
regret to tell you that I have placed our colleague, Dr. Lowiewski, under
arrest. He is suspected of betraying confidential data to agents of the Fourth
Komintern. Yesterday, I learned that data on all our work here, including
Team-secret data on the Sugihara Effect, had got into the hands of the
Komintern and was being used in research at the Smolensk laboratories. I also
learned that General Nayland blames this Team as a whole with double-dealing
and selling this data to the Komintern. I don't need to go into any lengthy
exposition of General Nayland's attitude toward this Team, or toward Free
Scientists as a class, or toward the research-contract system. Nor do I need to
point out that if he pressed these charges against us, some of us could easily
suffer death or imprisonment."

"So he had to have a victim in a hurry, and pulled my
name out of the hat," Lowiewski sneered.

"I appreciate the gravity of the situation," Sir
Neville Lawton said. "And if the Sugihara Effect was among the data
betrayed, I can understand that nobody but one of us could have betrayed it.
But why, necessarily, should it be Adam? We all have unlimited access to all
records and theoretical data."

"Exactly. But collecting
information is the smallest and easiest part of espionage. Almost anybody can
collect information. Where the spy really earns his pay is in transmitting of
information. Now, think of the almost fantastic security measures in force
here, and consider how you would get such information, including masses of
mathematical data beyond any human power of memorization, out of this
reservation."

"The only material things that are allowed to leave
this reservation are sealed cases of models and data shipped to the different
development plants. And the Sugihara Effect never was reported, and wouldn't go
out that way," Heym ben-Hillel objected.

"But the data on the Sugihara Effect reached
Smolensk," MacLeod replied. "And don't talk about Darwin and Wallace:
it wasn't a coincidence. This stuff was taken out of the Tonto Basin
Reservation by the only person who could have done so, in the only way that
anything could leave the reservation without search. So I had that person shadowed,
and at the same time I had our telephone lines tapped, and eavesdropped on all
calls entering or leaving this center. And the person who had to be the
spy-courier called Adam Lowiewski, and Lowiewski made
an appointment to meet him at the Oppenheimer Village Recreation House to play
chess."

"Very suspicious, very
suspicious," Lowiewski derided. "I receive a call from a
friend at the same time that some anonymous suspect is using the phone. There
are only five hundred telephone conversations a minute on this
reservation."

"Immediately, Dr. Lowiewski attempted to leave this building," MacLeod went on. "When I intercepted
him, he tried to draw a pistol. This one." He
exhibited the Beretta. "I am now going to have Dr. Lowiewski searched, in
the presence of all of you." He nodded to Alex and the Englishman.

*****

They did their work thoroughly. A pile of Lowiewski's pocket
effects was made on the table; as each item was added to it, the Pole made some
sarcastic comment.

"And that pack of cigarettes: unopened," he
jeered. "I suppose I communicated the data to the manufacturers by
telepathy, and they printed it on the cigarette papers in invisible ink."

"Maybe not. Maybe you opened
the pack, and then resealed it," Kato suggested. "A
heated spatula under the cellophane; like this."

He used the point of his knife to illustrate. The cellophane
came unsealed with surprising ease: so did the revenue stamp. He dumped out the
contents of the pack: sixteen cigarettes, four cigarette tip-ends, four bits
snapped from the other ends--and a small aluminum microfilm capsule.

Lowiewski's face twitched. For an instant, he tried vainly
to break loose from the men who held him. Then he slumped into a chair. Heym
ben-Hillel gasped in shocked surprise. Suzanne Maillard gave a short,
felinelike cry. Sir Neville Lawton looked at the capsule curiously and said:
"Well, my sainted Aunt Agatha!"

"That's the capsule I gave him, at noon," Farida
Khouroglu exclaimed, picking it up. She opened it and pulled out a roll of
colloidex projection film. There was also a bit of cigarette paper in the
capsule, upon which a notation had been made in Kyrilic characters.

Rudolf von Heldenfeld could read Russian. "'Data
on new development of photon-neutrino-electron interchange. 22 July,
'65. Vladmir.' Vladmir, I suppose, is this schweinhund's code name," he added.

The film and the paper passed from hand to hand. The other
members of the Team sat down; there was a tendency to move away from the chair
occupied by Adam Lowiewski. He noticed this and sneered.

"Afraid of contamination from the moral leper?" he
asked. "You were glad enough to have me correct your stupid mathematical
errors."

Kato Sugihara picked up the capsule, took a final glance at
the cigarette pack, and said to MacLeod: "I'll be back as soon as this is
done." With that, he left the room, followed by Bertie Wooster and the
Greek.

*****

Heym ben-Hillel turned to the others: his eyes had the hurt
and puzzled look of a dog that has been kicked for no reason. "But why did
he do this?" he asked.

"He just told you," MacLeod replied. "He's
the great Adam Lowiewski. Checking math for a physics-research team is beneath
his dignity. I suppose the Komintern offered him a professorship at Stalin
University." He was watching Lowiewski's face keenly. "No," he
continued. "It was probably the mathematics chair of the Soviet Academy of
Sciences."

"But who was this person who could smuggle microfilm
out of the reservation?" Suzanne Maillard wanted to know. "Somebody
has invented teleportation, then?"

MacLeod shook his head. "It was General Nayland's
chauffeur. It had to be. General Nayland's car is the only thing that gets out
of here without being searched. The car itself is serviced at Army vehicles
pool; nobody could hide anything in it for a confederate to pick up outside.
Nayland is a stuffed shirt of the first stuffing, and a tinpot Hitler to boot,
but he is fanatically and incorruptibly patriotic. That leaves the chauffeur.
When Nayland's in the car, nobody even sees him; he might as well be a robot
steering-device. Old case of Father Brown's Invisible Man.
So, since he had to be the courier, all I did was have Ahmed Abd-el-Rahman
shadow him, and at the same time tap our phones. When he contacted Lowiewski, I
knew Lowiewski was our traitor."

Sir Neville Lawton gave a strangling laugh. "Oh, my dear Aunt Fanny! And Nayland goes positively
crackers on security. He gets goose pimples every time he hears somebody saying
'E = mc^{2}', for fear a Komintern spy might hear him.
It's a wonder he hasn't put the value of Planck's Constant
on the classified list. He sets up all these fantastic search rooms and
barriers, and then he drives through the gate, honking his bloody horn, with
his chauffeur's pockets full of top secrets. Now I've seen everything!"

"Not quite everything," MacLeod said. "Kato's
going to put that capsule in another cigarette pack, and he'll send one of his
lab girls to Oppenheimer Village with it, with a message from Lowiewski to the
effect that he couldn't get away. And when this chauffeur takes it out, he'll
run into a Counter Espionage road-block on the way to town. They'll shoot him,
of course, and they'll probably transfer Nayland to the Mississippi Valley
Flood Control Project, where he can't do any more damage. At least, we'll have
him out of our hair."

"If we have any hair left," Heym ben-Hillel
gloomed. "You've got Nayland into trouble, but you haven't got us out of
it."

"What do you mean?" Suzanne Maillard demanded.
"He's found the traitor and stopped the leak."

"Yes, but we're still responsible, as a team, for this
betrayal," the Israeli pointed out. "This Nayland is only a symptom
of the enmity which politicians and militarists feel toward the Free
Scientists, and of their opposition to the research-contract system. Now they
have a scandal to use. Our part in stopping the leak will be ignored; the
publicity will be about the treason of a Free Scientist."

"That's right," Sir Neville Lawton agreed. "And
that brings up another point. We simply can't hand this fellow over to the
authorities. If we do, we establish a precedent that may wreck the whole system
under which we operate."

"Yes: it would be a fine thing if governments start
putting Free Scientists on trial and shooting them," Farida Khouroglu
supported him. "In a few years, none of us would be safe."

"But," Suzanne cried, "you are not arguing
that this species of an animal be allowed to betray us unpunished?"

"Look," Rudolf von Heldenfeld said. "Let us
give him his pistol, and one cartridge, and let him remove himself like a
gentleman. He will spare himself the humiliation of trial and execution, and us
all the embarrassment of having a fellow scientist pilloried as a
traitor."

Kato nodded quickly. "Excellent idea!" he
congratulated von Heldenfeld. "If he does, he'll save everybody a lot of
trouble. Himself included." He nodded again.
"If he does that, we can protect his reputation, after he's dead."

"I don't really see how," Sir Neville objected.
"When the Counter Espionage people were brought into this, the thing went
out of our control."

"Why, this chauffeur was the spy, as well as the
spy-courier," MacLeod said. "The information he transmitted was picked
up piecemeal from different indiscreet lab-workers and students attached to our
team. Of course, we are investigating, mumble-mumble. Naturally, no one will
admit, mumble-mumble. No stone will be left unturned, mumble-mumble. Disciplinary action, mumble-mumble."

"Oh, that?" MacLeod shrugged. "That was
planted on him. One of our girls arranged an opportunity for him to steal it
from her, after we began to suspect him. Of course, Kato falsified everything
he put into that report. As information, it's worthless."

"Worthless? It's better than that," Kato grinned.
"I'm really sorry the Komintern won't get it. They'd try some of that
stuff out with the big betatron at Smolensk, and a microsecond after they'd
throw the switch, Smolensk would look worse than Hiroshima did."

"Maybe plutonium poisoning."
Farida suggested. "He was doing something in the radiation-lab and got
some Pu in him, and of course, shooting's not as painful as that. So--"

"Oh, my dear!" Suzanne
protested. "That but stinks! The great Adam Lowiewski,
descending from his pinnacle of pure mathematics, to perform a vulgar experiment?With actual things?"
The Frenchwoman gave an exaggerated shudder. "Horrors!"

"Besides, if our people began getting radioactive,
somebody would be sure to claim we were endangering the safely of the whole
establishment, and the national-security clause would be invoked, and some nosy
person would put a geiger on the dear departed," Sir Neville added.

"But, Dunc; have we the right to put him to death,
either by his own hand or by an Army firing squad?" he asked.
"Remember he is not only a traitor; he is one of the world's greatest
mathematical minds. Have we a right to destroy that mind?"

Von Heldenfeld shouted, banging his fist on the table:
"I don't care if he's Gauss and Riemann and Lorenz and Poincare and
Minkowski and Whitehead and Einstein, all collapsed into one! The man is a
stinking traitor, not only to us, but to all scientists and all sciences! If he
doesn't shoot himself, hand him over to the United States, and let them shoot
him! Why do we go on arguing?"

*****

Lowiewski was smiling, now. The panic that had seized him in
the hallway below, and the desperation when the cigarette pack had been opened,
had left him.

"Now I have a modest proposal, which will solve your
difficulties," he said. "I have money, papers, clothing,
everything I will need, outside the reservation. Suppose you just let me leave
here. Then, if there is any trouble, you can use this fiction about the
indiscreet underlings, without the unnecessary embellishment of my
suicide--"

Rudolf von Heldenfeld let out an inarticulate roar of fury.
For an instant he was beyond words. Then he sprang to his feet.

"Look at him!" he cried. "Look at him,
laughing in our faces, for the dupes and fools he thinks we are!" He
thrust out his hand toward MacLeod. "Give me the pistol! He won't shoot
himself; I'll do it for him!"

"It would work, Dunc. Really, it would," Heym
ben-Hillel urged.

"No," Karen Hilquist contradicted. "If he
left here, everybody would know what had happened, and we'd be accused of
protecting him. If he kills himself, we can get things hushed up: dead traitors
are good traitors. But if he remains alive, we must disassociate ourselves from
him by handing him over."

"And wreck the prestige of the Team?" Lowiewski
asked.

"At least you will not live to see that!" Suzanne
retorted.

Heym ben-Hillel put his elbows on the table and his head in
his hands. "Is there no solution to this?" he almost wailed.

"Certainly: an obvious solution," MacLeod said,
rising. "Rudolf has just stated it. Only I'm leader of this Team, and
there are, of course, jobs a team-leader simply doesn't delegate." The
safety catch of the Beretta clicked a period to his words.

"No!" The word was wrenched almost physically out
of Lowiewski. He, too, was on his feet, a sudden desperate fear in his face.
"No! You wouldn't murder me!"

"The term is 'execute'," MacLeod corrected. Then
his arm swung up, and he shot Adam Lowiewski through the forehead.

For an instant, the Pole remained on his feet. Then his
knees buckled, and he fell forward against the table, sliding to the floor.

*****

MacLeod went around the table, behind Kato Sugihara and
Farida Khouroglu and Heym ben-Hillel, and stood looking down at the man he had
killed. He dropped the automatic within a few inches of the dead renegade's
outstretched hand, then turned to face the others.

"I regret," he addressed them, his voice and face
blank of expression, "to announce that our distinguished colleague, Dr.
Adam Lowiewski, has committed suicide by shooting, after a nervous collapse
resulting from overwork."

Sir Neville Lawton looked critically at the motionless
figure on the floor.

"I'm afraid we'll have trouble making that stick,
Dunc," he said. "You shot him at about five yards; there isn't a
powder mark on him."

"Oh, sorry; I forgot." MacLeod's voice was
mockingly contrite. "It was Dr. Lowiewski's expressed wish that his
remains be cremated as soon after death as possible, and that funeral services
be held over his ashes. The big electric furnace in the metallurgical lab will
do, I think."

"But ... but there'll be all sorts of
formalities--" the Englishman protested.

"Now you forget. Our contract," MacLeod reminded
him. "We stand upon our contractual immunity: we certainly won't allow any
stupid bureaucratic interference with our deceased colleague's wishes. We have
a regular M.D. on our payroll, in case anybody has to have a death certificate
to keep him happy, but beyond that--" He shrugged.

"It burns me up, though!" Suzanne Maillard cried.
"After the spaceship is built, and the Moon is annexed to the Western
Union, there will be publicity, and people will eulogize this species of an
Iscariot!"

Heym ben-Hillel, who had been staring at MacLeod in shocked
unbelief, roused himself.

"Well, why not? Isn't the creator of the Lowiewski
function transformations and the rules of inverse probabilities worthy of
eulogy?" He turned to MacLeod. "I couldn't have done what you did,
but maybe it was for the best. The traitor is dead; the mathematician will live
forever."

"You miss the whole point," MacLeod said. "Both of you. It wasn't a question of revenge, like
gangsters bumping off a double-crosser. And it wasn't a question of
whitewashing Lowiewski for posterity. We are the MacLeod Research Team. We owe
no permanent allegiance to, nor acknowledge the authority of, any national
sovereignty or any combination of nations. We deal with national governments as
with equals. In consequence, we must make and enforce our own laws.

"You must understand that we enjoy this status only on
sufferance. The nations of the world tolerate the Free Scientists only because
they need us, and because they know they can trust us. Now, no responsible
government official is going to be deceived for a moment by this suicide story
we've confected. It will be fully understood that Lowiewski was a traitor, and
that we found him out and put him to death. And, as a corollary, it will be
understood that this Team, as a Team, is fully trustworthy, and that when any
individual Team member is found to be untrustworthy, he will be dealt with
promptly and without public scandal. In other words, it will be understood,
from this time on, that the MacLeod Team is worthy of the status it enjoys and
the responsibilities concomitant with it."